A Thousand Words
by Raven Catz
Summary: In Paris, the arrival of an ambitious photographer lands a certain someone on the opposite side of a familiar situation. Is he capable of redemption despite drowning in past mistakes? Will she even be given the opportunity to choose?
1. Chapter 1

_I spent nearly an hour wrapping each segment of my camera carefully in calico rags. This is to be the longest trip I will ever take with my camera, and I want to be certain that it will survive the journey. My lens plates were polished to a golden brass shine, each piece carefully cleaned and packaged. My tripod stood dutifully, folded and leaning against the edge of the bed, awaiting its fate as I carefully placed a lone stack of glass plates, themselves carefully cleaned and wrapped, into my case. _

_My name, for the curious, is Irene Lennox, it is April, 1885, and I am 22 years old. I am the eldest of four, my sisters Lily and Rose, and my brother Charlie. I have, until this time, lived on a small estate in the English countryside. And this is the book in which I will record my adventures. _

Irene closed the book with a quiet thump. It too was destined for her traveling case. She surveyed her things with the slightest hint of dismay. She knew, inwardly, that bringing her camera with her would take up too much space, but this was to be her great escape, her last hurrah, and she would be damned before she left the thing behind in the provincial English countryside while she was whisked away to Paris.

Before she could unceremoniously toss the leather-bound journal into her case, there was a soft knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in."

It was her father. Tall, handsome, with a still-boyish face framed by weathered, greying hair, he stood in the doorway, also surveying Irene's packing.

"Your aunt is not going to be pleased with you."

"Auntie would not be pleased with me regardless, Father. She gets on much better with Lily."

"Lily has been ducking her French lessons for six months now, Irene. But then, you are more likely to end up lost, or under the wheels of a streetcar. Perhaps Bess believes that you, at least, will be able to ask for help once the inevitable happens?"

At this, his face broke into a smile, and Irene crossed the room to fling her arms around him.

"I will miss you in Paris, Father." She murmured into his jacket. "I'm bringing my camera, and I will have a whole album of photographs for you when I come back. It will be like you were there with us the whole time."

"As long as you don't abandon your Aunt for too long."

"She lived in Paris for years, Father. I don't understand why she would even need a traveling companion."

"Are you questioning your fortune, my daughter? I am certain she would be more than happy to-"

"No." Irene broke in, finally tossing her journal into the case.

A long silence permeated the room, and Irene moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

"You are going on an adventure. One I have long dreamed of. What could be the trouble of my pretty eldest daughter?"

"Father…" she protested.

"Does the journey concern you? Are you worried about your plates? I'm certain you can find them in Paris…"

"It's not the journey I am concerned about, Father. It's… coming home."

"You will be gone six months, child. Coming home is a concern for the far-flung future. I am certain you will be much less uneasy about your life then."

"Perhaps you are right." She replied, knowing full well nothing would change. Silently, knowingly, her father nodded, then retreated from the room.

It was so strange, this feeling of going away. The room she grew up in, the one she shared with her two younger sisters, was suddenly stripped bare of any evidence of her existence. Clothes, gloves, shoes and personal items filled one case. A valise held the things she would need on the train. Another case now held her meticulously packed camera, plates, and tripod. Chemicals would be waiting for her in Paris, as she did not trust them to not leak in her case and damage everything.

She felt almost as she had the night before her brother Charlie was married. Married. At least she wouldn't be expected to unpack as soon as she returned.

"Irene." Her father's voice drifted in from the other side of the door once more. "We'll be having lunch with your Aunt and Mr. Leigh before you depart. I thought perhaps you would like to prepare…"

Irene did not answer him, but instead slumped as far as she could before the bones of her corset began digging into her ribs.

* * *

_Lunch was a miserable affair. First, I had to hear from Mama AND Lily AND Rose how I was wearing the worst possible gown for the occasion, considering I would not be seeing Mr. Leigh for another six months. Nevermind the fact that no one had seen fit to inform me of his call, coupled with the fact that I had expressly dressed for traveling, and that I was certain Auntie would not be pleased should I have to hold everyone up to change. _

_I had nothing to say, and I felt like a trained pony, having to pretend to be dreadfully sorry that I would be away for so long. Secretly, I wished he would grow tired of waiting for me and ask for one of my sisters instead. But then…_

The table had not yet been cleared when Edmund Leigh requested a moment alone with Irene. Her sisters giggled identical, bubbling giggles and tore out of the room. Her mother attempted vainly to smooth the creases in one of Irene's sleeves before sighing and retreating. Only her father hesitated at the door, looking torn for the slightest moment, before leaving them alone.

"Miss Lennox…" Edmund began, clearing his throat for the thousandth time.

He was not a bad-looking man, Irene thought, as she often did. She searched her mind, as on every previous occasion, vainly looking for whatever it was that was wrong with her to not want this pairing. Again, she came up empty. It seemed to her that her only reasoning was that he had such a dreadfully restricted worldview. She hated that. If only there was something wrong with her. Then, at least, she would be permitted to delve into a spiral of self-loathing and destructive behavior. Instead, she had to sit, stupid benign smile plastered on her face, as he talked about how many more awards for livestock his estate would hold by the time she returned.

At length, he stood and actually approached her, something of a rarity. She shook herself out of her headspace and stood to join him.

"No…" He began, urging her to remain seated.

"Miss Lennox, I would very much like to announce our engagement."

"Why?" It burst from her lips before any sense of carefully ingrained propriety could silence it.

Edmund blinked several times in stunned silence.

"What I mean to say is… What are people going to say if you announce our engagement on the eve of my running off to another country for half the year?" Irene covered quickly. He sighed in visible relief.

"I thought perhaps…"

"You thought perhaps you'd lay official claim to me before I had any chance to escape." Irene thought darkly.

"Edmund, you are proposing to me, for heaven's sake, call me by my name. And I think the neighbors would have an awful lot to say about my trip to Paris, should you announce your engagement while I'm on a cross-country train. Wouldn't you rather wait, so that we may celebrate together?" She was choosing her words most carefully now.

"Does this mean you accept my proposal?" Edmund asked, looking hopelessly confused.

"I'm suggesting you reserve even asking me for my hand until I return." She said.

"If I return…" the thought fluttered briefly around the edges of her consciousness.

"Right. Um. Right."

"I really must take my leave, as regrettably as that thought may be. I wouldn't want to upset Auntie by being late." Irene dipped her head slightly, cheeks burning hot.

"Of course. I will, of course, write you."

"I look forward to it."

"Goodbye, Irene."

She looked up, surprised. Despite her frequent insistence of the use of her given name, he had never actually used it.

"…Goodbye, Edmund."

* * *

_So far, so good. Checked my cases once we landed in France, and everything seems intact. Auntie hasn't said two words to me this whole trip. Our connecting train to Paris is going to be quite an adventure if we cannot come up with something to say to each other._

_I think, perhaps, she may have been listening in on my conversation with Edmund. Mama certainly was, and I'm certain she was not happy with me. I know how much Mama wants to see me comfortable and married off, but… _

_I don't understand why he can't just ask Rose instead. She'll be twenty in two months, and they have much more in common with each other than he and I. I'm an educated woman, after all. I went to trade school in the city, I have a whole career ahead of me if I want it. It's not as if I need to depend upon anyone for my existence. _

_Father sympathizes, I think, but he still gave his permission to see me married. _

_It's just… I look at Edmund, and I see that his entire existence ends at the property line of his estate. He has fine horses and beautiful gardens and that's all that exists in his entire universe. I've lived in a city, and now I'm traveling the world, and I cannot possibly imagine coming home in six months with an album full of photos from France and contenting myself to keep house and play the harpsichord and take photographs of nothing but vases of tulips and my fifteen children. That's a fine life for some ladies, but it's not what I want, and, one way or another, I will manage to convince someone of that fact before I must return to England. All I need is one ally…_

Irene hastily stashed her journal in her valise as her Aunt returned, sliding their compartment door shut behind her with a snap. The clatter of the train temporarily began to crescendo, before falling suddenly into the background once more. She still wasn't certain what her aunt would make of her continual, largely meaningless scribbles. She had spent considerable time in the company of her spinster aunt. Her mother's second-eldest sister, Auntie Bess had lived in Paris for a few years, including time she spent trapped within the city's walls during the Franco-Prussian war. Why she would so wish to return to a place with such heavy memories, Irene wasn't sure, but perhaps that was why she requested a traveling companion.

It still baffled Irene, as she sat in silence, why she would not rather have taken Lily with her. Though Lily had done everything in her power to avoid learning the French language, it seemed to Irene that her Auntie Bess enjoyed her company considerably more. And, it was true, despite the fact that Lily was only 16, she could out-cook, out-charm, and out-entertain Irene in just about all subjects. And, as the youngest daughter, it would have made sense to send her off to France, in the hopes of attracting some unwitting soldier or nobleman's son to take her hand.

On the other hand, Irene was educated, she was well-spoken in French, she had artistic sensibilities which would appreciate a trip to a city like Paris. She might not come home on the arm of a French noble, but she certainly would not embarrass herself while she was on the trip. And perhaps that was what Auntie Bess was looking for after all, someone who could be sent on her own for baguettes or milk without ending up hopelessly lost.

All the same, as the pair eyed each other skeptically from opposite sides of the compartment, Irene couldn't help but think this was going to be a LONG journey.

The final trip into Paris was uneventful and, as Irene had predicted, silent. The pair preferred to gaze out the soot-grimed windows at the passing of the countryside, each lost in their own tangle of thoughts. As neatly compartmentalized farmland gave way to village, then, eventually city, Irene felt an unfamiliar tingle running through her every nerve. This. This must be what freedom feels like. Her heart began to beat just a little faster, now that she was finally here.

Almost an afterthought, Irene remembered her camera. She hoped that her equipment made the journey unharmed, because she wanted to capture everything, as soon as possible. Her aunt had not mentioned where they would be living for the next six months, but Irene was certain she'd be bringing home a photograph of it.

"Irene? Irene, please do pay attention." Auntie Bess was waving at her from halfway down the train platform. Irene snapped back to reality. Turning furiously pink, she hitched up her skirt and began trotting after her aunt. She was not off to the most marvelous of starts.

Finally, after a carriage ride, a train, a ship, another train, and finally another carriage, Irene was standing on the steps of a beautiful Parisian two-flat. The tenants were friends of Aunt Bess, and had arranged for the upper flat to be available for them for the remainder of the year. Irene watched, detached, as Aunt Bess was tearfully greeted by this stranger and her husband, tongues flying at a much faster pace than her French lessons had prepared her for. She was suddenly conscious of how exhausted she was, after the journey.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the pair were led up the dim staircase into what would be a sun-soaked flat come morning. It was only then that Aunt Bess saw fit to address Irene again.

"You must be exhausted." She said simply. "I certainly am. Get off to bed, I expect you to be up quite early in the morning, as we have much to do."

"Yes, Aunt Bess." Irene bobbed her head and turned to retreat to her room.

"Irene."

She stopped, looking back.

"I think you are going to enjoy what I've planned for us tomorrow." Her aunt was smiling, most peculiarly. Irene couldn't remember the last time she had seen her aunt smile. She wasn't sure this was going to be as enjoyable an experience as she was being led to believe.

"I look forward to it." She smiled in return, albeit nervously.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, as promised, Irene was up bright and early. She was astonished how refreshing sleeping in a new place was, but perhaps it also had something to do with the fact that she had her own bed, and was no longer fighting for space with Lily and Rose. She stumbled into the parlor, where her Aunt and their Parisian neighbors were already passing around a pot of tea.

"When you said 'early' you weren't kidding…" Irene mumbled, trying to feel presentable.

"At least you're awake. Tea?" Bess was still unusually cheerful. Perhaps freedom was a heady feeling for her too, although Irene had never imagined her mother's younger sister to be anything other than the stern head-of-household on her own estate. Irene gratefully accepted a cup, hoping it would help her achieve something resembling alertness before she was forced out into the golden sunlight.

"When you said 'early' you weren't kidding…" Irene mumbled, trying to feel presentable.

"At least you're awake. Tea?" Bess was still unusually cheerful. Perhaps freedom was a heady feeling for her too, although Irene had never imagined her mother's younger sister to be anything other than the stern head-of-household on her own estate. Irene gratefully accepted a cup, hoping it would help her achieve something resembling alertness before she was forced out into the golden sunlight.

"You should be pleased to know that I'm taking some liberties with you that I might not have taken with your sisters…" Bess continued, blithely sipping her tea.

"Pardon?" Irene inquired.

"There is to be a gala performance at the Opera Garnier tomorrow evening. Since it is doubtful you have anything in that pitiful case of yours that might befit such an occasion… I will be taking you into the city this morning to be fitted for a suitable gown."

Irene's teacup clattered back into her saucer, nearly sloshing tea onto her skirts.

"Excuse me?"

"I daresay you heard me correctly the first time. Now, do get washed up. We have work to do."

"If by work you mean shopping spree…" Irene whispered under her breath, the tingly feeling of adventure taking hold of her once more.

It might not have been a shopping spree, per se, but Irene did spend the majority of the day trying not to drool on the myriad of Paris' finest shop windows, looking for THE GOWN that she would make her grand Parisian debut in.

"And here we thought you were a tomboy…" Auntie Bess murmured, in English.

"Hardly. I might find more pleasure out in the mud with my camera than I do indoors tatting lace, but I'd still like to be fashionable while I'm out there." Irene grinned, face pressed against yet another pane of glass.

Silk slippers, kid gloves, opulent fans, and hats of all styles called to her, pulling her attention this way and that. Brand new, bright corsets hung in windows, with dazzling cording and embroidery. Fabrics she'd never even seen before left her head swimming with a rainbow of colors she thought could only exist in an English garden.

Finally, she saw it. There, hiding behind the delicate gowns in the window, stood a mannequin with the most beautiful concoction Irene had ever seen.

"Oh, Auntie… I think I've found it." She whispered, pointing.

"What are you waiting for?" Aunt Bess smiled.

Irene couldn't believe her ears. It was as if she had gone to bed herself and awakened as some sort of magical princess. This creation, far beyond her imagination, was not just a thing to be momentarily admired in a shop window… it was something she would be allowed to feel, to keep with her. To take back to her stuffy life in England, and…

The moment they began lacing her in, she forgot all about England. She put it out of her mind, she had decided, forever. This life was the one that mattered now. This adventure in the light of Paris high society.

* * *

April. The last opera of the season would be opening in a matter of days. At least, he was nearly certain it was April, and somewhat less certain that the performance was opening soon. All he could hear was the mangled echo of the chorus and the orchestra, drifting through his life in a way he had never quite been able to tune out.

How many years had it been now? How many operas had come and gone unseen? There was, of course, the devastating first year after, when nothing was done save scrape soot off the gilded walls and rebuild the parts of the Opera House which had been gutted down to their iron floors. The silence and sounds of construction had been a welcome relief, though his very being ached to hear music from above. Somewhere inside, he knew, much like the opium and morphine before, the only way to truly feel sober again was to forget the very notion of _her_ voice. And yet…

He could not exist if not for some cursed aspect of his existence, and he found, as the months drew on into years, that he could still hear her singing in his head. Perhaps he always would, and what then?

There was a sharp rap at his door. Quietly, he counted to thirty in his head before rising and approaching the source of the noise. Opening the door, he found an envelope, baguettes, a packet of tea, and a freshly pressed duplicate of the now horrendously out-of-fashion suit he wore.

"April it is." He thought wearily. "And a Thursday." The opera would be opening tomorrow night.

* * *

Irene found herself in the carriage that would take her to the opera gala, Aunt Bess beside her in the most beautiful black gown, dripping with jet fringe. Their Parisienne friend, Emilie, and her husband seated across from them. And Irene, herself, unable to stop touching the smooth satin as it wound around her waist, falling, cascading in beautiful swags toward her feet. She was afraid of taking her hands off it, that it might still be only a dream. It was the most beautiful shade of sage green, an effusion of lace bubbling up over the low neckline. The color complimented her complexion and her red-tinged auburn hair perfectly, and in that moment, Irene was certain this was the most beautiful dress that had ever been constructed. They had even managed to find her a pair of matching, sage green satin opera gloves, which she held in one hand, too afraid of putting them on, lest she lose contact with the smooth, cool fabric of the gown itself. She wore a simple black ribbon around her neck, fastened with a single pearl fastening, and her hair was piled higher on her head than she had ever thought possible, and topped with the tiniest black hat she had ever seen. She was certain of it now, she had woken up this morning to the secret knowledge that she was a princess of some faraway land.

"Irene…" Aunt Bess' voice shook her out of her thoughts. She was gesturing silently to Irene's hands, as the carriage began circling toward the great front entrance to the Opera Garnier. Irene looked down, remembering that her fingers were nearly permanently stained black from the silver nitrate she needed to develop her photos. Hastily, after one final stroke of her skirt, she slid the long gloves on, smoothing them up toward her elbows.

The moment she set foot inside the opulent main entranceway of the Opera, Irene could feel the hand of Fate weighing heavy on her shoulder. She marveled at the gilded pillars, the hundreds of carved figures perched and watching her every move. She moved with the crowd, slowly filtering into the house itself.

The theater was stunning. Every inch of it had been restored exactly to the specifications of the architect, aside from one thing. Everywhere she could see, the flicker of gaslight had been replaced by twinkling electric bulbs. Even high above her head, as she craned upward to see Charles Garnier's vast, restored chandelier, she found it to emanate a steady electric glow.

Though she felt the scrutinizing eyes of Paris upon her, seated near the front of one of the Opera's sweeping balconies, there was only one thing on her mind in this moment.

"I wonder how I can get my camera in here…" She breathed. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Aunt Bess, not eyeing her sharply, but rather breaking into a detached smile of pride. Irene made a mental note to ask about this, but the sound of the orchestra beginning to tune their instruments drove all other thought out of her mind forever.

The opera was Mozart. It was bright, it was frothy, it was perfect.

* * *

The opera was Mozart. The harpsichords and trilling arias distorted particularly horribly as they drifted through the chasm below the opera house, mingling with the rushing of water, echoing off the hewn stone chambers, whistling through dusty, half-forgotten corridors. It was frothy and merry. He had loved Mozart once. Tonight, however, he found himself contemplating drowning himself in the lake, if only to never again have to hear its persistent bubbling cheer. Instead, he drew the great, heavy curtains in his chambers, vainly attempting to dampen the sound, and crawled off to bed, burying his cursed ears beneath pillows.

* * *

The performance had ended, but the gala itself had barely begun. Irene found herself drifting through clouds of conversation, sometimes with Aunt Bess hovering over her shoulder, other times alone and adrift in the sea of tail-coats and ball gowns. She had attracted the attention of a young man who was vainly attempting to interest her in the intimate inner workings of his brie producing business, but Aunt Bess deftly stepped in and rescued her, pulling her away like an excited sister, to join her friends.

Irene had never assumed Aunt Bess would have been much of a socialite, and yet, here she was, with numerous society contacts, hugging and dabbing at teary eyes, and glowing in the golden light.

"I should say… it's not like it used to be, Monsieur Andre…" voices drifted into Irene's consciousness.

"You are exaggerating at best, Firmin. The seats still get sold."

"We are due for a little _publicity_. Perhaps this time, not the _negative_ sort."

Irene turned, following the sound of the voices.

"Monsieurs?" She dipped her head and extended a hand.

"Can we help you, Madamoiselle?" They asked, nearly in unison.

"My name is Irene Lennox. I'm a photographer. I could not help but overhear that you are in need of some publicity?"

"Well…" The managers peered at each other, skeptically.

"Have you had photographs taken of the interior, Monsieurs? I understand you've undergone significant renovations of the interior in the past four years. Perhaps if you could demonstrate that your opera is just as opulent as patrons remember, and… modern, with the new electric lights. Perhaps they would be intrigued. I'm certain I would be. Imagine, little picture-postcards flying all over the world with that grand electric chandelier. If you were stuck in… Belgium, and you received a little picture-postcard like that, I'm certain you would want to get on a train straightaway and come to Paris, where everything is modern and beautiful!"

The managers looked at her, perhaps a moment too long, then slowly turned to each other.

"I think it's a brilliant idea."

"Firmin!"

"Think about it. Not only do we look modern and opulent… we also look _progressive_." He was hissing into the ear of his partner, but Irene still heard every word clearly.

"Oh, of course, M. Firmin. And I assure you, I am highly skilled in my craft. If only I had some of my work to show you…"

"Never mind that right now, Mlle. Lennox. I'll tell you what, you come down here tomorrow afternoon, bring us some samples, and we'll discuss further. Have you a chaperone?"

"A what? I'm traveling with my Aunt Bess, over there…" She gestured, somewhat dismissively. "She doesn't mind if I need to step out in the afternoon, as long as I'm safely home before dusk."

"Progressive indeed. Well, Mlle. Lennox, see that you arrive early in the afternoon, and we'll have you back home in time for tea."

Irene let out a little yelp before stifling herself and again dipping her head slightly.

"Merci, Monsieurs. Tomorrow afternoon."


	3. Chapter 3

Despite spending half the night awake, frantically shuffling through stacks of prints by candlelight, squinting at the focus, the grain, the exposure in dim yellow haze, Irene was awake by the time the church bells across the street were clanging the rest of the world out of their beds. She rushed through breakfast, too nervous to do more than pick at her food. The rest of the house was still clad in dressing-gowns as she hastily laced herself into a walking dress with broad navy stripes.

"Irene, are you alright?" Aunt Bess inquired.

Irene had somehow madly hoped she wouldn't have to explain her afternoon to her aunt. She was, after all, here to act as companion, not entrepreneur.

And yet, she was still so excited by this opportunity she had negotiated for herself, as she began to speak, she found it all tumbled out of her in a rush.

Aunt Bess surveyed her momentarily, a series of unreadable expressions flitting over her face in quick succession, until she finally clucked her tongue in what Irene could only assume was disapproval.

"Irene, remind me why I brought you here."

"To keep you company, Auntie."

"I daresay this is not exactly what I had in mind."

"I don't expect it would have been."

"You say you will be home for tea?"

"Yes ma'am"

"Do you think that addled little brain of yours can remember to pick up some bread on the way home?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good. See that you don't forget. Oh, and Irene…"

"Yes, Auntie?"

"See that they like your work."

Irene's cheeks began to flush slightly pink.

"I sincerely hope they do."

* * *

Irene arrived at the Opera, still shuffling prints around in her hands, trying to figure out the most attractive presentation, wracking her brain for the perfect transition from one image to the next, hoping that, in the daylight, Messrs. Andre and Firmin would not see her as just a silly girl.

As it turned out, the interview seemed to be more of a formality than anything else. A test to be certain that she had not, in fact, been a little too drunk and trying to flirt with the Managers the night before. While Irene had worried that her photographs of London garrets and her family's own provincial cottage would not impress the pair, they, in turn, seemed more impressed by "a woman's eye for elegance in architecture."

"You are a talented young lady indeed, Mlle. Lennox. I am certain we have quite an extensive list of the improvements we've made to the Opera over the last four years. In addition, we would love to provide access to the original plans and photographs of the Opera, so that you may compare these to the work we've done. All of our improvements strive to be faithful to the original blueprints, with only… er… minor improvements to the internal layout. Removal of redundant underground passages and the like." Andre was blustering on.

"Andre…" Firmin elbowed his partner under the table. Seeing Irene's curious expression, he smiled broadly.

"Improvements have no doubt been made in the last 20 years in the ability to move machinery and props throughout the space. Technology advancing at the pace it is, much of the space once reserved for hydraulic equipment is no longer necessary to our operations and has been, er… sealed up."

Irene found herself instantaneously curious as to what might linger behind the gilded plaster and painted facades.

"…In any case, as we consider it dangerous for all our girls to be traversing the passageways unattended, we will provide you with an assistant. You must promise that you will never go exploring unattended, as there are still areas of the Opera which are unsafe if you are not aware of the danger."

"Of course, sir." Irene smiled, dipping her head. She, of course, had already filed this instruction away as more of a guideline than a rule. After all, how was she going to get truly phenomenal images if she couldn't explore every inch of the space?

"Excellent. We shall establish a schedule for you that will offer minimal conflicts with our rehearsal schedule. We will send for you in a few days."

"Merci, Monsieurs, I look forward to hearing from you."

* * *

Every week, on Mondays and Thursdays, Irene found herself lugging her heavy camera and plates across Paris. She would be met by a large stagehand named Etienne, who insisted upon carrying her equipment, possibly so she couldn't sneak off on her own. She was conducted through dark passageways, across the grand stage, through the opulent foyer, up stairs, down stairs, always with Etienne patiently pointing at things on a copy of the Opera blueprints, and then waving his enormous hand in the general direction of whatever had been rebuilt, improved, electrified, or bricked over. One day, he conducted her up countless sets of stairs, where they were met with five other stagehands, who subsequently drew the immense chandelier up through the Opera ceiling, to the room it was maintained in, and they allowed her to photograph it up close.

Finally, Etienne led her down the hallway that echoed with the giggles and bubbling conversation of the little ballet girls.

"We've renovated all of the dressing rooms, Mademoiselle. Most of them are in use today, but our diva won't be back until tomorrow. You can photograph her room."

Irene dipped her head, as she usually did, and allowed herself to be conducted to a dressing room at the far end of the hallway. As she took her camera from Etienne, a small girl, who might have been maybe 11 or 12, poked her head into the room.

"Papa!" she called.

Etienne looked at her, smiling.

"Mademoiselle, this is my daughter, Claire."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Claire. Are you in the ballet?" Irene asked.

"Soon, Mademoiselle. Papa works here to pay for my training." Claire bubbled.

"Papa, will you come watch us rehearse?"

"I cannot, Claire." He responded, eyeing Irene.

"Oh for heaven's sake." Irene said, eyes gleaming. This was her chance, finally.

"You've been following me around for six weeks now, Etienne. I'll stay right here. It'll take me 20 minutes to set up anyhow."

Etienne looked uncertain for a moment.

"Please, Papa. We've finished a new dance this week. Mme. Giry made it much more difficult this time."

Finally, with a sigh, Etienne moved toward the door.

"I cannot deny my only daughter." He said. "You, please, stay here."

As soon as he was out the door, Irene set down her plates with a clatter and began looking around the room. She poked her head out into the hallway, watching her chaperone and his wiry, black-haired daughter retreat into another room. She strained her ears for the tinkling of the rehearsal piano, and then she began sidling up and down the hallway, peering into corners and around doorways, hoping for an elusive secret passageway. Finding nothing obvious, she slipped back into the dressing room, and unfurled the blueprints, hovering over them in the dim electric light. She fingered over the papers until she found the hallway. The dressing rooms. This room. And then she noticed it. There was something, behind this room. A passageway that seemed to lead to nowhere. Irene's hair began to stand on end. She reached for her camera, numbly beginning to set up, arranging the lights, careful to shine them over every surface, hoping to reveal some sort of secret lever. She slid a plate into her camera. She beamed her lights toward the mirror. Something seemed strange. It was almost as if, once the lights were shimmering off the surface, that the reflection somehow dimmed. She approached it, to look closer.

"Are you alright, Mademoiselle?" Irene spun around. The voice belonged to the disheveled Mme. Giry, her dull complexion offset by severe posture and a single, grizzled raised eyebrow.

"I thought I saw something in the mirror…" Irene sputtered, stupidly.

"You must be imagining things, Mademoiselle. Seeing ghosts like the little ballet girls."

"But…"

"The mirrors are old and fogged by smoke damage. I assure you, there is nothing to see."

Irene retreated to her camera, set her focus, and opened the shutter.

* * *

It wasn't until late that night that she finally processed her plates from the day. It was easier to work at night, when light leaks would be minimized. She had been permitted to set up a darkroom in the little shed behind the two-flat, and there she stood, dipping paper into endless baths of chemicals, counting in her head when each would need to be removed. When she was finished, and the prints were hung on clothesline to dry, she retreated to bed without a thought.

After breakfast the next morning, Irene went out to the little shed to bring down her prints. She studied each of them in turn, as she unclipped them from the clothesline. There was the long, dark hallway, an impromptu, blurry portrait of the wriggly ballet girls, so used to constant movement, they were unable to keep still enough to be photographed clearly. A close-up of the new electric sconces in the dressing rooms, swirling with gilded leaves and tiny, delicate nymphs. And then Irene reached the last photograph. As she moved to unclip it from the line, she stopped suddenly, gripping the clothesline and swaying on the spot. The photograph of the room, with its great glass mirror suspended in front of her, but she wasn't looking at a great glass mirror. She was looking at the long, impossible, dimly illuminated passageway that shone through behind the two-way glass.


	4. Chapter 4

"Irene, there's a letter for you." Aunt Bess was drying the breakfast dishes in the kitchen as Irene drifted in through the back door, still clutching her prints, not looking up.

"Who is it from?" She asked, detachedly.

"Edmund."

Irene looked up, stricken.

"I don't want it."

"Suit yourself." Aunt Bess said. Irene had expected a rebuke, but when she encountered none, her gaze dropped immediately back to the prints in her hands.

"Auntie, I'm certain you've got plans for me this afternoon, but I must step out for a few hours. I've… just discovered we're out of coffee."

"Irene, since when have you been so concerned with the coffee supply in this house? I'm certain we can pick some up on the way home from…"

"Please." Irene again looked up, heart squeezing with the excitement of her discovery.

"If you insist."

"I'll be back in three hours, Auntie." Irene was already dashing out the door.

* * *

By this time, just about everyone at the Opera Garnier was used to seeing Irene drifting in and out. Her schedule may have been just as fixed as everyone else's, but just at the stagehands hung about in dusty corners, cigarette smoke curling in lazy circles about their heads, swapping stories of their former lives, Irene also went unnoticed as she crept through the vast spiderweb of halls. The young ladies of the ballet were rehearsing this afternoon, and she heard the thudding of their wooden pointe shoes as they herded each other from room to room. More than once, she was forced to slip into the shadows to avoid the sweeping, hawklike gaze of Mme. Giry.

"…Yes, Mlle. Ravin, my daughter will be arriving from Kiev tomorrow…"

Snippets of conversation drifted through Irene's mind, her focus sharply on the room at the very end of the long hallway. She would have to hurry, as there would be nowhere else to hide.

The room would be occupied today, Irene remembered suddenly. She peered down the long hallway, hoping against hope that she would see no merry golden electric light spilling from the doorway at the end of the hall. To her astonishment, the diva herself was nearly sweeping by at that very moment, and Irene ducked quietly away, narrowly missing a collision. Irene watched her retreat down a side hallway in silence, and then made her break. Wooden bootheels clicking across the floor, she swept, as quickly as corseted lungs would allow, into the dressing room at the end of the hall. The side table was awash in flowers, a robe had been left on the chaise. She would have company, and soon, by the looks of things. Her hands flew to the mirror, to its great gilded frame. She felt over every inch of wall, desperate. And then, by sheer chance, her fingers fell upon one of the tiniest gilded leaves set in the frame, and she heard a small pop. With a creak, she was able to pivot the mirror ever so slightly, and slip into the long darkness on the other side.

If this passageway was still in use, Irene had no way of knowing. The decommissioned gaslight sconces on the walls jutted forlornly into the gloom, illuminated only by the light emanating from the room on the other side of the mirror. Irene noticed suddenly that there was a torch, leaning haphazardly near the mirror, as if it had been forgotten. The fire that had eaten away the dressing room on the other side had evidently not touched this part of the Opera. She lit the torch, to find the passageway blackened and coated with soot and grime. What _was_ this place?

The passageway stretched onward, and Irene's curiosity called her into the darkness. At length, after twisting and turning through endless, pointless night, she encountered a fresh, red brick wall. So this is what they meant by bricking up redundant passages…

Still, her curiosity peaked. She felt along the wall for some time, until she was satisfied that there was nothing here but memories long abandoned. She began her trip back toward the mirror, only slightly disappointed, when she heard it.

The sound of wooden bootheels on wooden floor abruptly became wooden bootheels on hollow iron. She had been so intent on the end of the passageway that she had not noticed the trapdoor in the floor. She guessed that whomever renovated this passageway had no knowledge of the secret world behind the mirror, and thus only closed up one side.

Her breath caught in her chest as she stooped down to throw open the trapdoor. Beyond it, hewn stone steps fell away into the darkness below. How had this been invisible in the Opera's blueprints? Her curiosity mounting, she clambered into the chasm, swinging the old iron door closed behind her.

No sooner had Irene closed the hatch behind her with a soft clank, when her whole mind was filled with the most curious, wailing music. It echoed, disorientingly through the cavernous darkness, and she once again held aloft her torch, peering into the endless shadows before her. She stumbled this way and that for awhile, unable to discern the true source of this curious, mournful howling. Eventually, she was able to follow at least whether or not she was approaching or retreating from it. As soon as she realized this, it occurred to her that she was not certain whether she *should* be approaching or retreating from it, but her curiosity begged her onward, and so onward she stumbled into the endless night.

Somewhere along the way, she lost all sense of her bootheels clanking on the iron floors and flagged stone steps, and, lowering her light for a moment, saw that she was now treading across a layer of muddy grime, growing thick and slick underfoot. At last, a number of small pinpricks of flickering light swam into view before her, and, despite a growing sense of dread, her curiosity grew exponentially faster, and she pressed on toward the ever-present wailing. As she approached, and the pinpricks proved themselves to be dozens of tiny candles, flickering on the surface of a broad, still lake, the howling grew almost unbearably loud, and she could discern, just underneath it, the metallic screeching click of a somewhat large clockwork mechanism.

She strode the breadth of the lake for awhile, gazing off into the gloom, hoping to catch a glimpse of what must be some kind of impressively large clockwork whistle, but she saw nothing, save the slight rippling of the surface of the lake. Momentarily, the lapping increased, sloshing over her boots, and she stepped back instinctively. It was then that her torchlight fell upon the hulking shadow of a small, black boat. It had no oars, but a short distance away lay an equally black, somewhat warped pole.

"Interesting." Irene murmured, reaching for the pole. "It must not be deep…"

Irene had often rowed herself across the small pond on her father's estate to read alone on the island it harbored. Carefully setting her lantern in the boat, she heaved it into the water, and clambered in. This was hardly a lake, but rather a pool, meant to house the works of an old hydraulic system. Perhaps it was best she had decided not to swim across, lest she be crushed by machinery. She slowly began to pole the boat into the lake, feeling carefully across the bottom, hoping for clues along the way.

He couldn't believe his eyes. Someone had the audacity to climb into _his _boat. Someone was rowing _his_ boat across the lake. Someone with a fairly good sense of orientation, despite the darkness and the disorienting echo of his wailing clockwork siren. Never you mind that he was adept enough at swimming that he could have recovered his boat at any time in the last four years. He always hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it would bring _her_ back to him.

The water, though dark, was clear and still, dimly illuminated by the candles floating on the surface. He watched, seething, as the mysterious voyageur carefully felt his way across the bottom. What infuriated him the most was not only that this individual did not intend to travel in confused circles, but also that they were experienced enough to carefully prod through the water for dangers before striking out for another row. He quietly drew another breath through his hollow reed and slipped through the water, snaking closer to the boat.

Erik knew enough to know that most of the stagehands up above had been sailors in another lifetime. Perhaps this is what he expected to be in the boat. A curious young stagehand, having been fed tales of ghosts in the deep. He expected his hands to pull down a stunned young man. He expected his hands to have to tighten quickly, to keep this young intruder from fighting. He, quite frankly, expected to have to snap the neck of whomever existed at the other end of the pole. But, as he watched it settle onto the flagged stone floor for the last time, Erik could not possibly have expected what he dragged into the lake on the other end of it.

He was temporarily disoriented by the sheer mass of swirling fabric that was suddenly entangled with both his arms and the pole which they still both resolutely grasped. And then he realized, the thing in the boat, the mass of cornflower-blue material now sinking like a stone in front of him, was a _woman_. Through the haze, he could see she was now thrashing hopelessly, disoriented at last, and having difficulty discerning what was up and what was down.

"Christine?" It burst from his lips as nothing but a silent stream of bubbles, and, as his wits finally gathered about him, he thrust his arms out, catching her by the collar, and began kicking resolutely for the surface.

As Irene had expected, the lake was not deep. Perhaps 8 feet at the most. Yet, this was still more than sufficient to send her plummeting as soon as she hit the surface of the water, face first. She had been pulled in by the other end of the pole, flipping into the water. She hoped, perhaps, she could keep hold of the pole and use it to right herself, but the shock of the cold water caused her to lose her grip shortly thereafter. Hanging in space with no sense of up or down, she began to panic. This was NOT what she had in mind when she fantasized about never returning from Paris.

As suddenly as she had been yanked into the water, she felt something seize her by the back of her dress. Instinctively, she wasted her own last breath screaming futilely into the water, until she realized that the force was pulling her upward. No sooner had her head broken the surface of the water when she felt the grasp on her collar loosen, and an arm wrap tightly around her waist instead, hauling her through the darkness and finally heaving her back onto the flagged stone floor of safety.

She was gasping, choking, water running into her eyes from now tangled and matted auburn hair. She blinked furiously and rolled onto her side just in time to see an immense dark mass heaving itself out of the water.

As he pulled himself up, he shook his now unruly hair out of his eyes. He found himself terrified of the sopping wet pile of dress now lying on his frigid stone floor. What if it was _her?_

Instead of approaching her, the being moved away, and suddenly, a garland of dim electric bulbs snapped to life above her. She could see, now, that it was a man, clad all in black. Finally, she lifted her head and stumbled to her feet.

"You saved me." She sputtered. He whirled around.

He regarded her sadly, eyes fixed on her dull orange hair. He was too spent now to feel rage at the fact that he had gone through all this trouble to be repaid with the face of a stranger.

"I tried to kill you." He responded, at length. His voice was sonorous, at once a velvety tenor, resonant yet vulnerable. "You are trespassing on my lake."

"That's no excuse to go and drown a girl." Irene responded indignantly. He momentarily seemed to swell in stature, then slumped his shoulders and turned slightly away from her. Perhaps it was just the shadows, playing tricks.

"I thought you were one of the stagehands."

"That's still no excuse." Irene pressed. He finally looked up again, stepped into the light to get a better look at this insistent nuisance. As he passed into the pool of electric glow, she saw the light dance across what she had previously mistaken for painfully pale flesh. In the light, she saw that it was not flesh at all, but porcelain, delicately hiding half his face from her gaze. His eyes were odd, one of them a deep, burning brown, the other so pale blue, peering from its porcelain socket that Irene was afraid for a moment that it was dead, and that he might be blind in one eye. Both of them, however, fixed on her face, sweeping, searching.

"You should come with me." He said at last. "Or you will freeze to death before you find your way out."


End file.
